To relax with Keats Wordsworth or Shelley
In a garden that's airy and bright
Indulging yourself in the most perfect milieu
Reading poems designed to delight
With lines such, as "Happy is England"
You read till your fulfilled and content
Till tiredness draws over you its heavy hand
Or till all of the sunlight is spent
To laze most your days in the sunshine
Where exertion comes from turning a page
In the summertime haze as you recline
Your transported to a bygone age
The dusk draws its inevitable veil o'er you
As the most perfect of days eventually ends
You pack up all your books and say adieu
To the poets, who have become your friends?
